


Through Another Lens

by Angel_In_Soho



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Falling In Love, First Kiss, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Introspection, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Photography, Pining, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Romantic Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, alternating pov, he does somehow it's a metaphorical hug, ineffable husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 19:06:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19729939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angel_In_Soho/pseuds/Angel_In_Soho
Summary: Aziraphale has always been an avid fan of storing knowledge, that was certain. He shared several stories, read books, read newspapers, and kept a bookshop. He loved being able to have little pieces of creativity humanity has to offer. So, Crowley's a bit surprised as the angel picks up a new hobby-- photography of all things-- and be good at it too.However, as time goes on, both of them realize something about each other that might not be revealed through words alone.It all started with his phone and ended with a picture frame.





	Through Another Lens

**Author's Note:**

> This idea came out of the realization that I never saw a picture of Aziraphale and Crowley together-- granted again, they were on opposite sides and all, but still! No picture. And then this was borne-- add a little bit of introspection and that's how it it is.
> 
> I would like to thank my friend Ecllaire for being my unofficial beta, aka reading my 5 am fic in the morning because why not. Thanks man!

In a world full of knowledge, development and change, it was important for several things to be kept. There were stories that were shared by telling them in a large open area, and people embedding them in their thoughts; there were stories that were immortalized because people put a pen on paper and wrote them down. There were moments that were experienced by someone else and shared due through different forms of art, and experiences molded due to being subjected to those art.

Books were Aziraphale’s favorite method of storing knowledge; he had seen the development from using pictography to words on stone tablets, which then involved to painting and paper. He had seen several artists and writers work themselves to the bone just to create a masterpiece, and Aziraphale—an angel who loves learning—collected them and put them in a safe place.

Granted, he was more of a reader, which is why he chose having a bookshop rather than an art gallery—which, to his elation, was steadily becoming a permanent fixture in different museums and galas. Art was more of Crowley’s thing; he always pointed out that the ‘good artists’ belonged in Hell. Music and art was Crowley’s favorite collection.

Which was why Aziraphale noted—when he had gone into Crowley’s flat after Armageddon Didn’t Happen—the lack of pictures.

No, paintings were here and there—framed around the flat, adorning the walls. But pictures—he has seen them become very popular to people nowadays—were something that Crowley didn’t collect. For the life of him, he thought that the demon would at least take one, as him having an actual mobile phone granted him easier access for photography. He personally thought that having cameras in your mobile phones were ingenious; he certainly would have them if they weren’t just his style.

Thus his point still stands; he had never seen Crowley even have a single photograph of himself, or for different sights.

While he loved literature, he also loved those with drawings and pictures in them, in awe of how technology had progressed. How people’s ability to capture the exact moments of life and put it on pages either black and white or colored? He held on vintage books, but he acknowledged the good in pictures.

Now they are having a quiet walk, just after their trials and their dinner in the Ritz. They loved being here—in St. John’s Park, observing life go on. Thus, with his mind stewing on his little discovery, it wasn’t surprising that he would’ve blurted it to Crowley.

“Have you ever used your camera on that mobile of yours?”

The demon in question just swerved his head in a confused gaze, and the angel couldn’t fault him for that. It  _ was  _ a random thought; they were talking about the Bentley’s newly added GPS tracker. “What?”

It was ignited by Crowley’s flat—that much he knew—but it was also borne out of the fact that he wanted to immortalize this moment in his mind in a form that cannot be conveyed by words. He wanted to take a picture of this moment and hang it somewhere around his bookshop, or even in his private quarters. He’d love to have a picture with Crowley, for once in his six thousand years of knowing the demon.

They’d just survive a potential Armageddon, and their potential deaths, so really, a picture was nice, wasn’t it?

Aziraphale jolted a little in embarrassment at his thoughts. “I—oh, well. I’ve been intrigued for a while on if you use your camera.”

Crowley regarded him with beats of silence before exhaling. “No. We’ve had this talk, Angel. I don’t like pictures. Why are you so hung up on my phone, anyway? I’ve told you—I’d  _ buy  _ you one if you would just let me.”

“No—I don’t want that. It’s just peculiar.” He hummed, trying to figure out why the topic of photography and phones had been nagging him for quite some time. The concern popped here and there, but not as loud as today. “You love paintings but don’t take pictures.”

“The difference of a photograph to a picture is effort, Angel.” Crowley rolled his head back as he swayed onto a bench, seating himself. “Photographs? Snap. You’ve got it already. Professional photographers are the artists. Me? Nah. I’d probably abuse it to some degree. You know what had happened when I learned about humans making sculptures.”

He most certainly remembered; Crowley tried goading different artists to make indecent ones just to laugh at. Aziraphale hasn’t recovered from some of those that have been results of Crowley’s successful temptation. “You have the eye for art, though.” Aziraphale pointed out, barring his thoughts from the conversation.

“Eye, Angel, not the knack for art.” Crowley huffed, then leaned towards Aziraphale, wagging his hand. “Besides it’s not like I can’t go and see pre-taken pictures on the internet, which, again, I’ve been trying to introduce you to—“

“I don’t need the internet,” Aziraphale gently batted Crowley’s hand away. He blinked when another thought came into mind. “How about  _ your  _ pictures?”

Crowley stopped, then sat straight. “What?”

“Your pictures!” He said enthusiastically. “I’ve never seen you take self-portraits.”

“Selfies,” Crowley sniffed, shuddering at the word. The angel smiled at it. “That’s just poor taste, Angel.”

“Why? You’re a handsome one.” Aziraphale remarked primly. “I would’ve thought that vanity would be one of your favorite sins, since you’re quite the looker yourself.”

Crowley made a strange noise, and looked away. “I prefer Sloth. Vanity’s boring, Angel, unless the human makes it a point for manipulation. Then temptation is an easy way for sin. Besides, phones are for calling and texting, Angel.”

Their conversation was steered away after that; Crowley had the knack of doing so when he didn’t want to talk about certain topics. Aziraphale was also a master at that as well, which was why he had noted that Crowley was adamant with him buying a phone and not taking pictures.

So, naturally—because he was a  _ bit of a bastard— _ Aziraphale bought a camera.

And that was when it all started.

* * *

Crowley knew that somehow, Aziraphale would branch out from the hobby of collecting books to another hobby; he’d seen how the angel started from collecting stories first, excitedly sharing them in Greece, then learning how to figure out hieroglyphics to understand the etchings on the pyramid walls. He was a learner, ready to know and share; it was one of the many things that Crowley loved the angel for.

But he didn’t expect that photography would be Aziraphale’s next hobby.

Granted, he should’ve seen it coming; Aziraphale always had a love for preservation and appreciation. The bookshop was a testament to that. He  _ also  _ should’ve been more prepared because it was only two days after the Not-Armageddon did the question of a camera spring up again.

So really, he should’ve been more prepared.

He wasn’t, for the love of Someone. He wasn’t, and he was feeling a different kind of fear coursing through his veins.

The angel had been an exceptional photographer; close to a professional, Crowley would admit. He was good at wielding the device, just as he was good at playing the harp whenever Aziraphale would encounter one. He was good at taking pictures of the lovely sights of England, the skies and its many hues, the clouds and their shapes, or the flora and fauna he would encounter. Aziraphale was good at them.

The thing is—what shakes Crowley to the core was the fact that Aziraphale’s tendency to whip out the camera was mostly directed at him whenever they were together. They would be doing something normal such as eating ice cream and Aziraphale would do the  _ oh goodness let me just  _ routine _ — _ and the distinct sound of a camera going off would be heard. Or maybe he was just lounging about in the bookshop and the  _ click  _ of the camera sounds and he’d look up, startled, and Aziraphale would have that bashful look on his face.

He had asked once, why Aziraphale kept doing so. The angel, in turn, tittered and said,  _ because you look picturesque. _

Crowley didn’t know how to respond, so right now—a month after the End of Doomsday—he had somehow convinced himself that he had enough. Now, armed with his phone and a picture frame, he knocked on the bookshop’s door.

He knew why Aziraphale was doing this; it was because whenever he’d bring up the topic of photography, Crowley would just brush it off. When Aziraphale pointed out his lack of self-portraits, Crowley rejected the notion; the angel most likely took it as a challenge. Now he was taking pictures of even the most inane things—the  _ ducks he was feeding,  _ his  _ Bentley,  _ Hell, even his  _ shoes.  _ It was a miracle that Aziraphale hadn’t burned out the memory card yet. He took pictures of every single thing.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale greeted jovially as he opened the door. “Quite a surprise! You didn’t tell me you were visiting!”

“I think I’ve earned the rights of going here unannounced.” He placed the picture frame on a vacant table—and he was surprised because there wasn’t supposed to be a  _ vacant  _ table because Aziraphale loved putting stacks and stacks of books everywhere—before looking at the angel. “I  _ did _ knock.”

“You did,” Aziraphale relented. His eyes flickered to the picture frame and he raised his eyebrows. “Oh! Is that a picture frame?”

“Yeah.” Crowley nodded, walking towards the angel. “For you, after this.”

Aziraphale halted whatever he was doing with the cabinet—he was probably arranging it somehow—and looked at him with surprise. “After what?”

“Come here.” Crowley brought out his hand and did the  _ come here  _ gesture. “I need to stop you from doing that sudden taking-pictures-of-me thing you’ve got going on. It’s not good for me.”

The angel looked immediately concerned. “W-Wait, have I been making you uncomfortable? It wasn’t my intention—“

Crowley raised his hand. “No, it’s fine. I’m just—not too  _ keen  _ on being photographed, and Hell knows I don’t care. No, I’m just here to make you tone down on the photographs.”

Aziraphale laughed, making Crowley’s own lips twitch into a ghost of a smile.  _ Now here goes,  _ he thought as he brought out his phone from his pocket.

“So,” he raised his phone and put it on his camera. “We’re taking a picture—together. Then I’m going to get it printed somewhere, and you’ll get a physical copy of the both of us. Just one though.”

“O-Oh!” Aziraphale’s eyes widened, and a light blush peppered his cheeks. Crowley thought it looked— _ picturesque—no, beautiful. _

_ You always had an artist’s eye,  _ Aziraphale had said to him in the past. The remark nagged his mind more than he would like to admit.

“Yep.” He popped the ‘p’ as to push his thoughts away. He put an arm around the angel’s shoulders—and idly thought  _ this feels like a hug, have we ever hugged before?— _ and raised his phone. “Now, smile.”

He took the picture and gazed at it, Aziraphale leaning over to look at the phone as well.

“Oh, that’s positively delightful!” The angel complimented, a smile gracing his features. “I would love that to be framed! Photos are such a nice invention, don’t you think, Crowley?”

Crowley, in question, felt like he was on the clouds—not Heaven, maybe Alpha Centauri—as he gazed at the photo he had taken. It was positively revolting. He wanted to throw away his phone. Go—Sa— _ Someone,  _ he was smiling like he had seen the best of the world, and he knew that was because he was next to the angel. Demons weren’t supposed to look  _ that  _ happy, it’s disgusting. The look didn’t fit his face.

But there was also Aziraphale’s beautiful smile captured in that moment, eyes lit up like sunshine, as if he was in the best moment of his life. It radiated happiness, contentment, and dare he would think— _ love.  _ It made the photo look otherworldly. It made it look divine.

_ Someone, I’m smitten,  _ Crowley realized as he lifted his gaze to look at Aziraphale, who was looking at him with a soft, inquisitive look.  _ And it’s laid bare on a photo for everyone—for people to see. _

“Well, I guess I have develop it?” Aziraphale prodded, not mentioning anything about Crowley’s unresponsiveness earlier.

“No one develops photos nowadays, Angel.” Crowley scoffed, pocketing his phone and turning around towards the door to avoid contact with the angel. He had started this little gig to stop Aziraphale from taking pictures of him, as an action of spite, but it seems like it had backfired, because his angel was quickly developing an artist’s eye. Aziraphale was always so observant as well too. It was only a moment of time before the angel would realize that somehow, Crowley had put his feelings on one single photo without meaning to.

He wanted to repeat taking the picture, but then that would probably clue the angel, and really the photo  _ was  _ good.

“But sure. I’ll—we’ll get it printed.”

* * *

Aziraphale loved the photo so much he diligently cleared his desk—for the life of him, he was a bit messy when it came to dealings in his office—to put a proper place for the picture frame.

It sat atop his little box of trinkets, safe from his cocoa or his writings. It made his day very bright, in a very different way; while he was happy most of the time, the picture brought another flavor to his day. While he didn’t really sleep that much (just once every year), seeing the photo made it feel like he was waking to a new day. A new day that was beautiful.

Maybe that was why humans collected pictures, and displayed them in frames and galleries. There was something so magical about them that words couldn’t capture; as much as Aziraphale loved reading, he was beginning to recognize that there was also mastery in taking pictures that could convey a thousand words.

His photo with Crowley was one of those moments. He was glad that Crowley was able to take a picture of them, finally; after he got it printed in the most delicate and quality paper, Aziraphale made it a point to put the date on the back.

Now, like any painting and any book, the day was immortalized in his picture frame. His memory wasn’t just a memory anymore, it was a photo too.

Admittedly, he wanted to take a photo with Crowley earlier—ever since he got the camera, actually. But he didn’t know if he was going to be able to take a picture of them without dropping his camera or taking it in a hideous way; he hadn’t bought a camera with an adjacent screen. It was a failure in his part; he should’ve bought one that would make him able to take a picture even if he was facing the camera around. At least Crowley finally used his camera phone! It was a delight.

While he thought that Crowley giving him a photo of them together would stop his photography-obsession, apparently it wasn’t. He was surprised that he was becoming a photographer as well, besides from an avid bookkeeper and reader.

Somehow, it felt right that his urge to preserve knowledge and experience branched out to another form of protection, from bookstore to a gallery of photos.

‘Gallery’ wasn’t a correct word—they were definitely just pictures hung on the east wall of his shop—but he was proud of them. A seagull on the beach, rain on the Bentley’s windshield, Crowley standing on the bench while he took it from far off as the sun set, flowers around England, and boats. Of course, there were pictures of his bookstore, exquisite food, the roads of England, Tadfield trees and their quaint houses, and Crowley’s houseplants. There were pictures of Anathema, Newton, Adam and Them, Sergeant Shadwell and Madame Tracy. He was proud of all of them.

He was also proud of capturing several moments with Crowley. Those make him smile the most.

“Here’s my purchase.” A client said as she hugged three books. Aziraphale noted that he had three copies of the same books, so he let it slide.

“Thank you.” He said, smiling, naming the price. He turned around to write on his receipt when the woman spoke.

“You’re good at taking pictures, Mr. Fell, you’ve definitely improved from the first photos I’ve seen here.” She observed, gazing at the east wall. “You put a lot of love in that.”

“It seems to translate fully, yes.” He nodded, giving the receipt. “I find photographs to be delightful. They’re as intriguing as books themselves.”

“And the red-haired man?”

He blinked, not expecting Crowley to be singled out. “Oh—that’s my friend.”

“Friend?” She echoed, something akin to disbelief in her voice. “Huh.”

“He’s delightful as well.” Aziraphale said honestly. “Look at him—he’s very picturesque, isn’t he?”

The woman looked like she was debating on something, but she said something instead, such as, “Picturesque indeed. He’s very angular but he knows how to pose.”

“Pose!” He said, gleefully grinning. “It must be. He doesn’t pose however—he’s just that naturally magnificent. Granted, he actually is the reason why I took up photography. He’s—he’s very.”

“Very?”

He tried to pin down a word on  _ why  _ he took more pictures of Crowley, and he would’ve said it was ‘because the man didn’t use his camera phone’ but it didn’t feel like that anymore. Not for the weeks that he's been using his camera.

“Unexplainable.” He settled, perturbed at the fact that he couldn’t find an exact word to describe Crowley in his photographs. “I—I actually don’t know how to explain what I feel when I take pictures of him.”

This was what he meant by words not being sufficient enough to explain something; it was happening to him _now_ , exactly.

“Oh dear.” The woman let out a smile, as she moved towards the door. “I hope you realize what that feeling is. I believe it’s quite crucial." She waved her hand towards the east wall, then to his desk. Aziraphale's cheeks colored involuntarily. "I’ve seen that picture of yours with him, Mr. Fell. It seems like he knows already what that feeling is."

"He... does?"

The woman smiled even wider, nodding.  "Photography becomes better if you realize why you feel certain ways when gazing or taking photos. You'll figure it out, Mr. Fell! Have a great day!”

“I’d have that in mind, and thank you, may God bless your day!” He said, smiling.

As the door closed, he looked at the wall of photos. His thoughts circled what the woman said to him.

_ What **is** that feeling?  _

_ Is it the feeling of protection?  _

_ Preservation? _

_ I would definitely want to protect and preserve these photos,  _ he admitted to himself. _They are worth saving._

He placed a hand on one of Crowley’s pictures—the one where he was grinning, because he did a miracle to let a teenager slip to the lake and be attacked by the ducks—and furrowed his eyebrows.  _ But this one—this is different. There’s a feeling that is different. _ He looked at another photo of the demon-- know on the bookshop's couch, on his phone, reading. Then another as he stood idly in the Ritz, pretending as if they didn't dine in the area here and then.  _ And Crowley might know already? _

He gazed onto the picture frame on his desk, pursing his lips; he discovered it was the same feeling as when he looked at Crowley’s pictures on his photography wall.

_ So it’s Crowley,  _ he realized. _It's Crowley that makes me feel this way towards photography?_

Then it dawned into him—what these photos he had taken could convey-- whereas his words couldn’t before.

They were taken in every moment, even the littlest to the most amusing, to a smile to a frown, to him walking or sitting on the couch. It was him driving the Bentley or being happy that someone was tempted.

It was the most powerful word that he knows, and  _ oh dear,  _ he thought as he sat down on his chair. He recognized what he was seeing-- and what he was capturing the whole time.

_ I’m in love. _

* * *

Crowley’s stupefied when Aziraphale’s photography skills just improve almost overnight.

By overnight, he meant a week, because after the picture frame incident he definitely did not show up in the bookshop just to go through the  _ Crowley you’re a demon stop it or I’ll smite myself  _ mantra he does whenever he lets a little of his feelings slip.

It was bad enough when his words and actions showed his heart. It was worse when all of a sudden Aziraphale was taking pictures of those moments.

He resented himself for looking like that—he was never really fond of his face conveying anything beyond the demonic features he ‘should’ have. The first time a pleased smile escaped his lips, it was in the Garden of Eden—with, yes, Aziraphale himself for eliciting that response from him—threw him off. His buddies from Hell thought it was very ‘uncomely’ for a demon. So; no to pleased smiles, especially now.

He swore to himself that he won’t be showing up for a while in the bookshop until he fixes his face-- until it looks normal in front of Aziraphale. The angel was cunning; he must’ve noticed by now. He was terrified if something changes all of a sudden.

But Aziraphale phoned him—told him  _ Crowley! Are you free? It would be a delight if you indulge me; I brought out my wine! _

Honestly, Aziraphale collects good wine. It was definitely the wine that urged him to go to the bookshop despite the dread coiling in his gut.

He stepped into the shop, noting that once again, there was a change in it—the east wall, with photos of different things. He knew he was correct; Aziraphale was most definitely taking random pictures of everything, but he could acknowledge that even from far away that the angel was good at what he does.

Aziraphale didn’t seem to write—rather, he took pictures, and made another way to appreciate something. It was weirdly poetic in a way, where Aziraphale took pictures and read the books, and Crowley appreciated artwork and influenced the writing of some books. It  _ would  _ be poetic if it wasn’t something that made his nervousness more known.

Right now, he was standing stock-still at watching Aziraphale gaze at their photo—the one he had framed—with the most  _ devastatingly beautiful  _ smile on his face. Crowley’s heart hitched into his throat;  _ why does he look like that?  _ He had to backtrack for a moment, his back hitting the shop’s door ungracefully. Of course, it alerted his presence to the angel.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale’s voice filtered in from the back, and he could hear the smile in his voice. The angel popped out from one of the shelves. “You came! I’m so glad!”

“When have I not, Angel?” He asked smoothly, smirk appearing on his lips. “I distinctly remember only one meeting of being late.”

“That’s too fresh on my mind, Crowley.” Aziraphale shook his head disapprovingly, but it was marred by the hesitant smile on his lips. “Ah. Well, you’re welcome to sit on my couch. I—I have something to say.”

The dreadful feeling was back again, and Crowley was getting increasingly worried. “Angel?”

“Everything’s chipper, Crowley, don’t concern yourself in a puddle.” Aziraphale brought his hands up and smiled shakily. “I just realized something, that’s all.” His gaze twitched to the direction of the photograph, and Crowley knew that his time was up; Aziraphale was going to put his foot down.

_ All because of a stupid photo,  _ he chastised himself.  _ Crowley, you’re such an idiot! _

“Look—it’s not what you think.” He started, shaking his head. “It’s really not. I’m like that with everyone.”

“What?” Aziraphale stopped as he walked out with two wine glasses. “I beg your pardon?”

“The—the picture frame.” Crowley mumbled. “I don’t mean it like that. It—it just slipped.”

Aziraphale sat on the opposite couch. “I…see.” He licked his lips in consternation. “…I see. Then was it just a ploy?”

Crowley considered lying, but he never did, when it came to this angel. So he opted a white lie: “Not exactly.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale commented, but the tension on his shoulders became more pronounced. “I see. I thought I was showing something correctly for once in a photo. Bugger.” He laughed nervously. “Wine?”

Crowley had his glass out already; he blinked, the words registering in his mind. “Wait—what?” He jerked his hand backwards, causing the wine to spill, and Aziraphale sighed for the moment.

“Crowley--!”

“No, repeat that—what did you mean?” He asked, heart hammering in his chest.  _ It’s not about you that he’s going to talk about.  _ He made a miracle to clean up the mess, knowing that wine was hard to remove from Aziraphale’s floor. “What about the photo? What do you mean?”

“Nothing of—value now, Crowley.” Aziraphale had that unsure smile again, and the demon wasn’t having any of it.

“Angel.”

“ _ Wine,”  _ Aziraphale repeated once again.

“What did you mean?” He pressed. “What about your photos?”

Aziraphale looked at him straight in the eyes, walls of resolve both crumbling and building in front of him. Crowley was struck at it. “I was… I think I realized why I wanted to take pictures all of a sudden. I know that you’ve been asking why I suddenly had the urge to take pictures, and it’s not about your words about not loving those self-portraits. It’s—“, he sighed again. “It’s not of your concern.”

_ It is,  _ Crowley thought hysterically. He remembered lingering gazes and awed smiles when his pictures—knowingly or unknowingly—were taken. He remembered pleasant grins that mirrored his own when he was trying to hide it in a photo. “It’s my concern, Angel, obviously. You’ve called me for it. I should know.” He raised an eyebrow, a smirk on his lips, just to protect his heart. “Or was this just because you missed me all of a sudden?”

Aziraphale met his gaze steadily. “Of course. I look forward to meeting you all the time, Crowley.”

Crowley’s throat felt dry. “The Armageddon has passed, Angel. Besides,” he gestured to the east wall of the shop. “You’ve got lots of photos right here!”

He stood up, ignoring the weak protest of  _ Crowley  _ that Aziraphale let out, and walked towards the photos. He gazed at all of them, and noted that they  _ really  _ looked good, just like Aziraphale was. On the other hand, there was also a very distinct large amount of him-focused photos. “See? There’s a lot of me here too.” He didn’t want to read more into it. “Great shots, Angel, you really got me in my best moments.”

_ Oh,  _ he suddenly realized with his tirade what Aziraphale was doing. He was collecting memories; storing, preserving, protecting, like the good angel he was. Like the man who treasured knowledge so much that he converted into becoming a bookkeeper.  _ He’s saving memories. _

In a split second of panic, he wondered if the angel was leaving him.

“This is enough to last a lifetime of memories, if it’s about storing them.” He said instead, the possibility of his angel being away hitting him somewhere on the chest at pinpoint accuracy. “I never knew you’d be into photography, but I guess that’s fine if you want to take pictures of me all of the time, I’m really honored. But really—there’s no need to miss me if you’ve got these.”

“My dear.” Aziraphale said softly behind him, “—no amount of photos would compare to you right here.”

Crowley whipped around, eyes wide in surprise. Aziraphale had moved towards him, hand tentatively around a new camera—probably the one that he used for the other photos on the wall.  _ Polaroids,  _ his mind supplied for him.  _ Aziraphale bought a Polaroid camera? _

He was holding a film on the other hand, and he knew—even from this angle—that it was him. It was him, gazing at the photos on the wall.

His expression was clear as day.

He wanted to escape.

“Aziraphale—“, he breathed out, fear gripping his voice again. He had crossed a line again. He hated pictures. “I don’t like being photographed—“

The angel placed his lips on the photo—almost reverently, like a prayer, like those one would see from devotees kissing their images of saints in faith. It was—that was too much for the demon. The thing that he most looked forward to in dreams-- in thoughts-- were suddenly becoming dangerously real.

“Aziraphale,” he tried again, but now it was different—it wasn’t fear, but something else entirely. Something deeper. “Angel—“

The angel put down the camera and the photo and took Crowley’s elbows in his hands, which made Crowley realize that he was shaking. “You’re the one with the artist’s eye, Crowley.” He whispered softly. “I wonder why it took me so long for me to realize.”

He swallowed. “Angel, there’s nothing to realize—“

“You always had that look on your face,” Aziraphale cut in quietly, but his voice seemed loud in the silence of the bookshop. “That I never could quite decipher. But I wanted to capture it somehow, but words feel too little for me to explain what it is. I never understood what it was telling me.”

Crowley’s eyes were wide, and he was silent; Aziraphale always had that effect on him when he was speaking.

“Then one day, I thought—maybe it’s a useful thing to pick up, photography, that is. I understood why it was important yet I never tried taking so. But I took the chance, and I’ve discovered so many things, Crowley—a brand new way to appreciate the world.” He removed his hold from his elbows and held his hands. “A brand new way to preserve… to protect…”

He raised a hand to Crowley’s ear, and tucked his hair. “To love.”

Crowley swallowed, shaking, overwhelmed all of a sudden. “Angel—you don’t mean—“

“You always had the artist’s eye, and I always had the drive to protect the literature.” He raised his gaze to meet Crowley’s. “But no wonder I wasn’t able to tell you why I am with you. Why I wanted to capture every moment into a photo. Because—out of every book I’ve read, there is no word that can explain how much I love you.”

“Aziraphale,” he breathed out in surprise. In a moment of reprieve, he made a smirk. “So it took you a camera to point it out?”

Aziraphale made a smile, and it was the same one as the one in the framed photo, the one he himself took. Crowley suddenly connected the two dots and almost staggered backwards in realizing what that meant.

“It took a photo for me to realize why you smiled at me like that.” Aziraphale admitted, pulling him close.

_ Me too,  _ he thought with elation.  _ That smile wasn’t just beautiful to me because you did it. It’s more; it’s divine, because somehow, I was the reason why you smiled like that. _

“I would like to take a picture of that wonderful smile you have right now—it’s beautiful.” Aziraphale confessed, and he raised a hand onto Crowley’s cheek. “But I would rather much kiss you, please?”

Crowley nodded, and as he closed his eyes—he realized that even if he was completely blind for the moment, he could feel and imagine the smile on Aziraphale’s lips as they met.

* * *

Aziraphale was an avid reader, because humans are very fascinating and they have so many stories to tell. They shared knowledge in every way they can. Then somewhere along the road, while literature dominated the storage of knowledge, it also evolved pictography and art into vessels of knowledge. Photography was something that showed that.

So many moments in the world were immortalized because of moments captured by cameras; a person standing in front of a line of tanks, the rise of a new nation, groups of people that contribute to the success of a nation. They also inspired new experiences, such as photos from another country and bringing you to an understanding of that place without going away.

Aziraphale wanted to preserve them in his bookshop, in one corner. Now, the angel was proficient in taking pictures himself, and he was able to protect those memories in a new way.

But, he would always, always admit that experiencing the real thing would always be the better thing than any photos combined.

Because-- no one took a photo of his kiss with Crowley, but the memory—and the outcome—would be immortalized in the future times to come.

And if Crowley’s house had more pictures framed of them together?

In a world full of change, this was something he would gladly cherish and keep protected in his heart. 

__

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys liked it! If you want to talk Good Omens, hit me right up at artist-in-space in Tumblr; I'll be glad to yell about these guys. I love the Ineffable Husbands so much it's staggering
> 
> Also, please comment, give kudos, bookmark, and thanks in advance! Thank you!


End file.
